It's time to introduce a new member of our feathered family. Jack is a male sulphur crested cockatoo of unknown age. He was found wandering on the side of the road on the Sunshine Coast. His rescuer looked for his owner, apparently he was found in an area that wasn't heavily populated, but without success. While he was looking Jack lived in a cat carrying cage. I don't know for how long. Then he came to our friends, G and P who introduced him to their population of rescue cockatoos. All was well until one of the males took a dislike to him. This bird attacked him and kept him from food and water, unless P was present. The sad thing is Jack didn't try and defend himself and what's worse, wouldn't even move while being bitten. P rang us May 23 and asked if we'd take him. Of course we would.
Jack talks, murmurs and occasionally screams which is great as he was completely silent for the first few days. He's lost a toenail on his left foot and has a wound on the backward facing toe of the same foot. The toes don't appear to be infected but we started him on antibiotics a couple of days ago because he's still extremely sore after 3 weeks. So sore that he uses his beak as a third foot to get around. He's allowed me to touch his toes but I don't try and flex them and feel for a break. They don't look broken but they are swollen. Despite the cleanliness of the wounds (there is new pink skin at the wound site) I am concerned that infection has gone up the bone. But then if that were the case he would be sick in himself and he's not. He did have a very bad case of coccidiosis and trichomoniasis when he arrived which isn't surprising considering the prolonged stress he had to endure.
There is another possibility - that the wounds are fine in themselves and the reluctance to move and the pain stems from having spent his entire life in a cocky cage. He will not flatten his toes ie, walk on a flat surface. It obviously causes him pain. Bumblefoot is a possibility. Have just written to his previous carers asking for more information about how he behaved when he was with them. I knew he was sedentary before but what I'm asking specifically is if he used his beak as a third foot before he was bitten.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Grand Illusion and Progress with Dimitri!
16.5.10. My last post unsettled me. Whether it's the voice of instilled conscience speaking I don't know but it seems as though by accepting evil I say I condone it. If the world is illusion, a moving tapestry of thought and emotion woven by consciousness then none of it is real - yet I do think we have, are born with, an innate sense of right and wrong. We are a reflection of Consciousness yet are flawed by our belief and participation in this grand illusion. What is the purpose of evil? Are those that commit it (and that's all of us) still learning the rules of the Great Game? The game being you can be and do anything you want, pretend anything you want and its only purpose is to keep you from remembering who you really are? The only rule of life is to participate. Once you stop breathing, you stop playing. But if you've played through many many lives and tire of the illusion you can go home - if you remember who you Are. The more evil committed the less you remember and the farther away you are from the source of all things. I suspect that someone who is very evil is very lonely. Not in the not having companions sense but in the isolation of the self. He has cut himself off from humanity and also from Self.
I just finished reading Out of Africa by Karen Blixen. I was struck by how knowledgeable she was. Her education was phenomenal. And she read. Widely and deeply. Immediately after closing the book I turned on the television and saw some music video clip. It was all glitz and glamour and sex and as brittle as glass - not one iota of beauty in it despite the perfection of the carefully made up and coiffed girls and the colourful barely there outfits. It was like drinking deeply of spring water and then moistening my lips with salt. But the comparisons weren't all bad. Although many of the references she made to other writers and their works were totally unfamiliar and there was a grace and dignity in her writing which seems to be a result of a kind of innocence that we, who see all, do all, know all, lack - there has been a change for the better in some way. When she arrived she was determined to shoot and kill one of each kind of game. She writes of the joy of killing lions, of the kill in general - and the blase attitude to clearing of the land for coffee. Toward the end of her stay in Africa her bloodlust abated and she only killed lions when they threatened the lifestock of the Natives.
I know people still hunt, still have that bloodlust. Still have that love affair with prey as she termed it. The courtship of the hunt and the consummation of the kill. But we are more aware of the finite nature of the planet and all the things on it.
But I didn't start this blog today to write about my opinions but to wave the flag for Dimitri. I have been trying to teach him to put a chewed wooden clothes peg in a bowl. I've been back chaining - having the peg in the bowl and clicking him for targeting it. When he picks it up and throws it out of the bowl I don't click. Today, for the first time I think he got a glimmer of what we've been trying to accomplish (it's quite difficult to type as I have Matisse, the Siamese cat, sitting on my lap and laying across my right arm). Anyway, he threw the peg out of the bowl and then, by accident or design, got it back in. I gave him a jackpot. (BTW, I'm also using sunflower seeds rather than millet - he likes them and they're quicker for him to consume therefore we get more training done. The downside is he's consuming quite a few sunflower seeds). Then he did it again. And again. So I removed the peg from the bowl - and after a few false tries he got it in again. Oh Happy Day!
I'm also clicking him when he looks me in the eye. Each time I go onto the verandah he scurries away. That's okay as he does turn around and, with encouragement, starts retracing his steps. He knows he'll get a millet spray when I come onto the verandah but now I'm waiting until he cocks his head and looks at me with that warm brown eye. Slowly slowly, agonizingly so but still. I keep in mind how K's corella, after some mysterious event while she was away on holiday, took an entire year to trust again - and he was a velcro bird, cuddling under her neck, trusting her to do anything. So with Dimitri, a wild caught Corella, nine months is nothing.
Nidji, accidentally released two weeks ago, is thriving. He hangs around with a pair of lorikeets, quite scruffy looking compared to him. Smaller too. I suspect one is Silda. They only tolerate him on the periphery and chase him away from the feeding stations. He's getting quite wily however, picking his time for feeding and even pushing the boundaries a bit with how close they allow him. He flies extremely well now. Landings and take-offs are second nature. And, as he's with the other two, his chances of survival have increased as there are two other sets of eyes watching the skies.
I just finished reading Out of Africa by Karen Blixen. I was struck by how knowledgeable she was. Her education was phenomenal. And she read. Widely and deeply. Immediately after closing the book I turned on the television and saw some music video clip. It was all glitz and glamour and sex and as brittle as glass - not one iota of beauty in it despite the perfection of the carefully made up and coiffed girls and the colourful barely there outfits. It was like drinking deeply of spring water and then moistening my lips with salt. But the comparisons weren't all bad. Although many of the references she made to other writers and their works were totally unfamiliar and there was a grace and dignity in her writing which seems to be a result of a kind of innocence that we, who see all, do all, know all, lack - there has been a change for the better in some way. When she arrived she was determined to shoot and kill one of each kind of game. She writes of the joy of killing lions, of the kill in general - and the blase attitude to clearing of the land for coffee. Toward the end of her stay in Africa her bloodlust abated and she only killed lions when they threatened the lifestock of the Natives.
I know people still hunt, still have that bloodlust. Still have that love affair with prey as she termed it. The courtship of the hunt and the consummation of the kill. But we are more aware of the finite nature of the planet and all the things on it.
But I didn't start this blog today to write about my opinions but to wave the flag for Dimitri. I have been trying to teach him to put a chewed wooden clothes peg in a bowl. I've been back chaining - having the peg in the bowl and clicking him for targeting it. When he picks it up and throws it out of the bowl I don't click. Today, for the first time I think he got a glimmer of what we've been trying to accomplish (it's quite difficult to type as I have Matisse, the Siamese cat, sitting on my lap and laying across my right arm). Anyway, he threw the peg out of the bowl and then, by accident or design, got it back in. I gave him a jackpot. (BTW, I'm also using sunflower seeds rather than millet - he likes them and they're quicker for him to consume therefore we get more training done. The downside is he's consuming quite a few sunflower seeds). Then he did it again. And again. So I removed the peg from the bowl - and after a few false tries he got it in again. Oh Happy Day!
I'm also clicking him when he looks me in the eye. Each time I go onto the verandah he scurries away. That's okay as he does turn around and, with encouragement, starts retracing his steps. He knows he'll get a millet spray when I come onto the verandah but now I'm waiting until he cocks his head and looks at me with that warm brown eye. Slowly slowly, agonizingly so but still. I keep in mind how K's corella, after some mysterious event while she was away on holiday, took an entire year to trust again - and he was a velcro bird, cuddling under her neck, trusting her to do anything. So with Dimitri, a wild caught Corella, nine months is nothing.
Nidji, accidentally released two weeks ago, is thriving. He hangs around with a pair of lorikeets, quite scruffy looking compared to him. Smaller too. I suspect one is Silda. They only tolerate him on the periphery and chase him away from the feeding stations. He's getting quite wily however, picking his time for feeding and even pushing the boundaries a bit with how close they allow him. He flies extremely well now. Landings and take-offs are second nature. And, as he's with the other two, his chances of survival have increased as there are two other sets of eyes watching the skies.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Nidji and the Eternal Question
Sometimes, without any exterior cause that I can see, I feel myself slide inexorably into a foul mood. Foul meaning easily angered, simmering resentment and frustration bubbling under the surface. Think of the breath, stay in the moment, bring back the present. Yes, it works to a degree and I'm a little better but it started me thinking. Yes, there are extenuating circumstances. Nidji, my stepsons rainbow lorikeet escaped day before yesterday when Algernon spooked him and the door was open a crack while I removed the food. It never should have happened. I never should have had the door open but I'd done it hundreds of time, the opening wouldn't have been more than 2 or 3 inches - but there you go. He escaped and hasn't returned. Instead he calls from ever widening circles around the property. Pablo calls and calls. He's very unhappy. But Nidji won't come back. It is unbelievable. Wild birds will return the next day to the aviary looking for food which we have placed on top. But Nidji who's been in captivity for 4 or 5 years, hasn't returned. He's flying like a champion. He's covered alot of ground so must be handling the take-offs and landings just fine. There is a huge very 'landable' silky oak tree and a beautiful poinciana, perfect for hiding in, right next to, even shading the aviary. But no, he lingers on the periphery, whistling.
I suppose another reason I've been cranky (besides Nidji and lack of sleep) is the distance I feel from the spiritual world. I feel enmeshed in materialistic thoughts and actions. When I try and pray, to get in touch with the eternal it is like looking into a mirror and seeing only my face on a two-dimensional surface. Small-mindedness.
Much later. R came in and hovered, looking over my shoulder which in the mood I was in I found irritating. Also claustrophobic. I leapt up and went outside. Best thing for me as I've been working on the latest sketch and watering the fernery. My mood has improved. If Nidji doesn't return, he doesn't return. There are enough trees in blossom to feed him. He has a beacon, in Pablo's constant calling, so that he doesn't get lost and food hanging, in plain sight, on the outside of the aviary. I find it odd when other released birds have returned for a time for supplement feeding, that Nidji doesn't. He's been well cared for, never captured or hurt or medicated. He's known only kindness and experienced a huge improvement on his previous situation (cage, solo). I don't even want to capture him, I just want to make sure he's got enough to eat and drink. But it is out of my hands.
May 6, Thursday. Nidji returned for food on Tuesday. R rang me at work. I've been a happy puppy ever since. Okay, I'm a little worried now as the birds went a little wild with alarm calls (hawk calls) and I couldn't find him outside. Assume he's just gone 'to ground' until the danger is over. The hawk has been hanging around for 30 minutes or so. Cruising this neck of the woods looking for food. A couple of years ago there were a couple of goshawks, one grey, one brown, who had the temerity to land on top of the galah aviary looking for an easy meal. The galahs went nuts with fear. Made such a racket we knew immediately what was happening. We'd go out and try and drive them off but they'd only fly to the top of a nearby tree and wait. We had to out-wait them. They were so regular and so tenacious R even talked of shooting them. Thankfully the mice population increased and they looked elsewhere for food. Not that R would've shot them. He was venting frustration. He will shoot dying birds, rats and brown snakes but with reluctance.
Yesterday and today, after a long absence, I finally made it to the gym. Feeling good in the car, listening to the best of Michael Jackson (whose music is life enhancing). All was well in my world. Happy happy happy. And then I saw a dead hare on the road, then I hit and killed a butterfly, then I saw the remains of a pheasant coucal, another road kill. I could feel my happiness bubble deflating. It seemed false and naive to remain happy when there is death and destruction all around. The news is full of disaster. The death of the planet is a real possibility as we can't cure our greed for energy and money. Wars are being fought, children raped, animals tortured. It threatens to overwhelm all that is good. I never used to be this sensitive, bouncing back and forth between euphoria and a mood that is something like grief. I can smile at the shape of a tree and be crushed by the felling of it. I don't know how this generation of children will cope. Is it like the cold war when the end of the world was predicted with the press of one button? I don't remember feeling like the world was going to end. I suppose I missed the worst of it as I was too young to take note. Now I am. Yet I can't let the pessimism get to me. What to do? It came to me as I was driving home: love it all. Love the night and the day, love the dark and light, the disease and the cure. What? I hear my non-existent reader say. Love murder, rape and mayhem? Are you nuts? Maybe so. And I'm not even sure I'm capable of it. I am capable of trying. Is it not all God's creation? Even if we are creatures of free will there is nothing on this earth which is not God if god is the fabric of creation, the ever changing, ever perfect All That Is. Explanations are impossible. I don't know why there is evil and pain and fear in the world. Is it all relative? What I find awful (heavy metal, mass development, dinner parties) other people adore. I abhor having needles, others hardly notice them. Would we all agree that having birds in cages is wrong? Would we all agree that torturing kittens is wrong? Not the psychopath - he would find joy in it. Is his joy different from our own? Does he experience a visceral lift, that 'oceanic feeling' while he dismembers the little furry thing?
The idea of beauty in the Middle Ages has nothing to do with the idea of beauty now. Even the difference between now and the nineteen fifties is apparent. (I watched, for the first time, From Russia with Love with Sean Connery, the other night. The leading lady, who was obviously considered beautiful to be cast as his love interest struck me as a very plain jane made passable with the use of make-up). The Crusades was good and righteous then as the Jihad is good and righteous now - to some people. Perhaps it's a cop out - to love it all or if not to love it to just accept it, embrace it and not fear it. Jesus had a tanty in the temple of the money changers. Even Jesus could get mad. I've often thought of that. An angry Jesus, the lamb of god. Lambs don't have tanties. So anger has its place? It was a good things millions died to defeat fascism but wrong to fight in Afghanistan or Iraq? Hussein wasn't a very nice man. Perhaps personally he was charming. Libya's president, Gaddafi, has even come out of the cold, having a handshake with President Obama. I am such a product of my WASP up-bringing that my idea of good and evil is predictable. Maybe it's just laziness on my part because it is too hard a subject and philosophy is not something I'm good at. Which brings me right back to embracing, accepting it all as the fabric of life. That old saw about how would we ever be happy unless we'd experienced unhappiness? Cold without the sensation of warmth, health without sickness, etc. etc. Speak up against evil and apathy and cruelty when I can, shine a light where I can but otherwise just embrace the lot.
I suppose another reason I've been cranky (besides Nidji and lack of sleep) is the distance I feel from the spiritual world. I feel enmeshed in materialistic thoughts and actions. When I try and pray, to get in touch with the eternal it is like looking into a mirror and seeing only my face on a two-dimensional surface. Small-mindedness.
Much later. R came in and hovered, looking over my shoulder which in the mood I was in I found irritating. Also claustrophobic. I leapt up and went outside. Best thing for me as I've been working on the latest sketch and watering the fernery. My mood has improved. If Nidji doesn't return, he doesn't return. There are enough trees in blossom to feed him. He has a beacon, in Pablo's constant calling, so that he doesn't get lost and food hanging, in plain sight, on the outside of the aviary. I find it odd when other released birds have returned for a time for supplement feeding, that Nidji doesn't. He's been well cared for, never captured or hurt or medicated. He's known only kindness and experienced a huge improvement on his previous situation (cage, solo). I don't even want to capture him, I just want to make sure he's got enough to eat and drink. But it is out of my hands.
May 6, Thursday. Nidji returned for food on Tuesday. R rang me at work. I've been a happy puppy ever since. Okay, I'm a little worried now as the birds went a little wild with alarm calls (hawk calls) and I couldn't find him outside. Assume he's just gone 'to ground' until the danger is over. The hawk has been hanging around for 30 minutes or so. Cruising this neck of the woods looking for food. A couple of years ago there were a couple of goshawks, one grey, one brown, who had the temerity to land on top of the galah aviary looking for an easy meal. The galahs went nuts with fear. Made such a racket we knew immediately what was happening. We'd go out and try and drive them off but they'd only fly to the top of a nearby tree and wait. We had to out-wait them. They were so regular and so tenacious R even talked of shooting them. Thankfully the mice population increased and they looked elsewhere for food. Not that R would've shot them. He was venting frustration. He will shoot dying birds, rats and brown snakes but with reluctance.
Yesterday and today, after a long absence, I finally made it to the gym. Feeling good in the car, listening to the best of Michael Jackson (whose music is life enhancing). All was well in my world. Happy happy happy. And then I saw a dead hare on the road, then I hit and killed a butterfly, then I saw the remains of a pheasant coucal, another road kill. I could feel my happiness bubble deflating. It seemed false and naive to remain happy when there is death and destruction all around. The news is full of disaster. The death of the planet is a real possibility as we can't cure our greed for energy and money. Wars are being fought, children raped, animals tortured. It threatens to overwhelm all that is good. I never used to be this sensitive, bouncing back and forth between euphoria and a mood that is something like grief. I can smile at the shape of a tree and be crushed by the felling of it. I don't know how this generation of children will cope. Is it like the cold war when the end of the world was predicted with the press of one button? I don't remember feeling like the world was going to end. I suppose I missed the worst of it as I was too young to take note. Now I am. Yet I can't let the pessimism get to me. What to do? It came to me as I was driving home: love it all. Love the night and the day, love the dark and light, the disease and the cure. What? I hear my non-existent reader say. Love murder, rape and mayhem? Are you nuts? Maybe so. And I'm not even sure I'm capable of it. I am capable of trying. Is it not all God's creation? Even if we are creatures of free will there is nothing on this earth which is not God if god is the fabric of creation, the ever changing, ever perfect All That Is. Explanations are impossible. I don't know why there is evil and pain and fear in the world. Is it all relative? What I find awful (heavy metal, mass development, dinner parties) other people adore. I abhor having needles, others hardly notice them. Would we all agree that having birds in cages is wrong? Would we all agree that torturing kittens is wrong? Not the psychopath - he would find joy in it. Is his joy different from our own? Does he experience a visceral lift, that 'oceanic feeling' while he dismembers the little furry thing?
The idea of beauty in the Middle Ages has nothing to do with the idea of beauty now. Even the difference between now and the nineteen fifties is apparent. (I watched, for the first time, From Russia with Love with Sean Connery, the other night. The leading lady, who was obviously considered beautiful to be cast as his love interest struck me as a very plain jane made passable with the use of make-up). The Crusades was good and righteous then as the Jihad is good and righteous now - to some people. Perhaps it's a cop out - to love it all or if not to love it to just accept it, embrace it and not fear it. Jesus had a tanty in the temple of the money changers. Even Jesus could get mad. I've often thought of that. An angry Jesus, the lamb of god. Lambs don't have tanties. So anger has its place? It was a good things millions died to defeat fascism but wrong to fight in Afghanistan or Iraq? Hussein wasn't a very nice man. Perhaps personally he was charming. Libya's president, Gaddafi, has even come out of the cold, having a handshake with President Obama. I am such a product of my WASP up-bringing that my idea of good and evil is predictable. Maybe it's just laziness on my part because it is too hard a subject and philosophy is not something I'm good at. Which brings me right back to embracing, accepting it all as the fabric of life. That old saw about how would we ever be happy unless we'd experienced unhappiness? Cold without the sensation of warmth, health without sickness, etc. etc. Speak up against evil and apathy and cruelty when I can, shine a light where I can but otherwise just embrace the lot.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Dmitri (always) Odds and Sods
It's true. When I paint I don't write. When I write I don't paint. At least I'm doing something which is grand. Have finished the Triumvirate of Crows which actually looks more like the Triumvirate of Gannets but who's judging. It's okay. It's a little weird, I've morphed one of the wings into a hand and the birds flying over the sea play tricks with perspective a bit (intentional) but it works. At least for me and I'm the only one who has to be pleased.
The current work is a face made of feathers with very large eyes. Large staring eyes. It's eerie as I drew the eyes first and have been working outward so this face emerges from the page without an outline as such. I've considered attempting a tromp d' loeil of the face being framed by torn paper. Saw an example somewhere. Really brilliant. Then again, the original idea was having this face transmogrifying from bird into woman or woman into bird. No, that's not quite true. I wanted to work on feathers. Unfortunately although I've the patience to do a sort of overlapping shell I haven't the patience to do individual feathers. While I was preening Marvin's head last night I studied his feathers. They are so complicated yet simpler than what I've been drawing but as I've drawn 3/4 of the face I'll continue with the effect I've started with. It will turn out to be something. No art work I've completed has ever turned out the way I envisioned it. I wonder if that's true for all artists. It's because I haven't the technique but also because the vision is always more complete yet more ephemeral than the actualization.
Rearranged the verandah and Dimitri's abode yet again. A few nights ago, with no provocation that I knew of, Dimitri fell off his perch 3 times. It was dark. We hadn't gone onto the verandah. I heard no unusual noises outside, yet he fell. That was it. Despite the pillows and padding surrounding his perch falling off three times is just too much. Even if he wasn't hurt, and he wasn't, it's a blow to his confidence to keep falling and heaven knows the boy lacks confidence. The next day I removed the tree perch, the food table, the chair and all the pillows, blankets and padding. He has two large and chewable branches, one about 7 feet long, the other probably about 5 feet. The shorter one is before the screen doors to outside propped on a short log with another slimmer branch stuck inside it. This morning I sawed off about 6" of that one because he was launching himself from it and landing awkwardly. He's most disappointed because although he can climb the branches and run along them he is now a floor ornament. But an unbreakable floor ornament.
This morning, for the first time in months, I did some clicker training with him but without the clicker which he doesn't like. Not the noise but the association as I used it when I was pressuring him to 'be friends'. I'm only using my voice. I suppose I'm clicker training each time I reward him with a millet sprig when he steps nearer but this morning I reintroduced the clicker for target training. First with Tachimedes, who remembered what he was supposed to do almost instantly. I ignored Dimitri while working with Tach which had the desired effect of bringing him over to investigate. He beaked it the first time and hung on for the next two times, trying to pull it away. That was good enough for a start. Our worktable will be the floor. I'm quite excited again. Naturally once he was confined to the floor he became worried again. We've taken a few steps backwards. No way would he take anything from my fingers. Yet this morning, as he came within inches of my leg while I worked with Tach, and ignored him, illustrated conclusively that he will come around. Perhaps we'll even get to the point where we can learn parlor tricks together (retrieve, ring on a post etc.)
As much as I'd like this to be a true repository for thoughts, feelings and observations it isn't. There is no way that I can write in here like I do in a handwritten journal. I cleaned this office a couple of days ago and found empty journals of all shapes and sizes, journals I'd collected over the years for future use. They seemed somewhat sad as they are like friends I'll never meet. I may go back to handwriting for awhile as I miss the intimacy and the freedom of journal writing. Even though I have no followers nor am I likely to get any I write in here as though someone was looking over my shoulder - which keeps it inane and boring. Odd at my age to fear the opinion of others but I am still that well brought up girl who was chastised for saying the word 'guts'. And the words of mom still ring in my ears, 'don't ever write down what the whole world can't read'. Words of wisdom she may have learned the hard way. She burned reams and reams of paper in the front of the Sparta house. What were they? fledgling novels, journals, letters, essays? I'll never know but I have a feeling that something she'd written was used against her somehow as she was always very secretive about her writings. I only found bits and pieces after she'd died. I know she was an inveterate writer of something, sometimes had The Writer magazine, had a few books on writing plus Strunk and White but I think her own teacher was her constant practice and inherent talent. The bits I've read have always intrigued me as they were unfinished and I wanted to know what happened to the characters I'd come to know. But the characters died with Mom.
The current work is a face made of feathers with very large eyes. Large staring eyes. It's eerie as I drew the eyes first and have been working outward so this face emerges from the page without an outline as such. I've considered attempting a tromp d' loeil of the face being framed by torn paper. Saw an example somewhere. Really brilliant. Then again, the original idea was having this face transmogrifying from bird into woman or woman into bird. No, that's not quite true. I wanted to work on feathers. Unfortunately although I've the patience to do a sort of overlapping shell I haven't the patience to do individual feathers. While I was preening Marvin's head last night I studied his feathers. They are so complicated yet simpler than what I've been drawing but as I've drawn 3/4 of the face I'll continue with the effect I've started with. It will turn out to be something. No art work I've completed has ever turned out the way I envisioned it. I wonder if that's true for all artists. It's because I haven't the technique but also because the vision is always more complete yet more ephemeral than the actualization.
Rearranged the verandah and Dimitri's abode yet again. A few nights ago, with no provocation that I knew of, Dimitri fell off his perch 3 times. It was dark. We hadn't gone onto the verandah. I heard no unusual noises outside, yet he fell. That was it. Despite the pillows and padding surrounding his perch falling off three times is just too much. Even if he wasn't hurt, and he wasn't, it's a blow to his confidence to keep falling and heaven knows the boy lacks confidence. The next day I removed the tree perch, the food table, the chair and all the pillows, blankets and padding. He has two large and chewable branches, one about 7 feet long, the other probably about 5 feet. The shorter one is before the screen doors to outside propped on a short log with another slimmer branch stuck inside it. This morning I sawed off about 6" of that one because he was launching himself from it and landing awkwardly. He's most disappointed because although he can climb the branches and run along them he is now a floor ornament. But an unbreakable floor ornament.
This morning, for the first time in months, I did some clicker training with him but without the clicker which he doesn't like. Not the noise but the association as I used it when I was pressuring him to 'be friends'. I'm only using my voice. I suppose I'm clicker training each time I reward him with a millet sprig when he steps nearer but this morning I reintroduced the clicker for target training. First with Tachimedes, who remembered what he was supposed to do almost instantly. I ignored Dimitri while working with Tach which had the desired effect of bringing him over to investigate. He beaked it the first time and hung on for the next two times, trying to pull it away. That was good enough for a start. Our worktable will be the floor. I'm quite excited again. Naturally once he was confined to the floor he became worried again. We've taken a few steps backwards. No way would he take anything from my fingers. Yet this morning, as he came within inches of my leg while I worked with Tach, and ignored him, illustrated conclusively that he will come around. Perhaps we'll even get to the point where we can learn parlor tricks together (retrieve, ring on a post etc.)
As much as I'd like this to be a true repository for thoughts, feelings and observations it isn't. There is no way that I can write in here like I do in a handwritten journal. I cleaned this office a couple of days ago and found empty journals of all shapes and sizes, journals I'd collected over the years for future use. They seemed somewhat sad as they are like friends I'll never meet. I may go back to handwriting for awhile as I miss the intimacy and the freedom of journal writing. Even though I have no followers nor am I likely to get any I write in here as though someone was looking over my shoulder - which keeps it inane and boring. Odd at my age to fear the opinion of others but I am still that well brought up girl who was chastised for saying the word 'guts'. And the words of mom still ring in my ears, 'don't ever write down what the whole world can't read'. Words of wisdom she may have learned the hard way. She burned reams and reams of paper in the front of the Sparta house. What were they? fledgling novels, journals, letters, essays? I'll never know but I have a feeling that something she'd written was used against her somehow as she was always very secretive about her writings. I only found bits and pieces after she'd died. I know she was an inveterate writer of something, sometimes had The Writer magazine, had a few books on writing plus Strunk and White but I think her own teacher was her constant practice and inherent talent. The bits I've read have always intrigued me as they were unfinished and I wanted to know what happened to the characters I'd come to know. But the characters died with Mom.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Fern, the Hahns Macaw and Time
Well, I'll be darned. It's worked. In the past I have tried to upload photos to the blog and have had no luck at all. Time outs, sullen refusals,' no speaka da inglis' - so much so that I gave up. The moon must be in the right quarter (waning) for here is Fern in all her pink glory sitting on the fence. Despite the appearance of that little cleft in her chest she is not overweight (not like some galah I could mention, mmmm Marvin?). It's a trick of the light for although she cannot fly (broken right wing, you can see it hangs strangely, broken at the joint), she is an active little thing and keeps her girlish figure.
Fern was the first galah who came to live with us. She was a young adult, not a juvenile and she taught me an awful lot about birds and galahs in particular. She took a long time to convince that we were actually on her side and wouldn't hurt her. Had her in a cocky cage set up in the dining area. I tempted her with sunflower seeds on a wooden spoon. Eventually she came around and although she is very opinionated and will nip without hesitation to show her displeasure, she is also very affectionate. It is only in the past year that I have been able, sometimes, to touch her anywhere but her head. I'm not sure but I think she's lived with us for about 9 years.
When we sit in our chairs with our respective drinks in the late afternoon after the chores we allow all the galahs out of the aviaries to have a pick and an explore. Marvin always bustles over first to have a preening session. Because he is so aggressive to the other birds he has to live in an aviary by himself. His aviary is right next to the 'girls' (although Obama is male, the only male living with the girls, we call it the girls, perhaps because he was the last addition) so he can see them. But he has no one to preen him. When he's had enough he asks to be put down on the ground and then, if Fern is nearby, she lifts her skirts and runs toward me. It's not that she's so anxious to see me, Fern is just a sprinter in spirit. She is the fastest galah on foot I've ever seen - and it does look as though she lifts her skirts (wings) so that they won't impede her while she gallops. The others just run without any rearranging of wings.
I have finished the Hahn's macaw and will try to get a picture of it up here tomorrow. I have it in the office with me now. It's at the stage that while it is *finished* I have to live with it awhile to see if any bits stand out as unfinished, overdone or incorrect. So far so good. Although it is a drawing from a picture and not something out of my head, I am well pleased with it. It has taught me alot about looking. I have a new appreciation for the feathering of my own birds and see them in a new more informed light.
Because I retire in 9 months I have been thinking about forming good retirement habits. It's been many years since I haven't worked. I have fallen into the trap of defining myself by my job and have worried a little about the bruising to my ego when I can no longer say I am a vet nurse. Ridiculous I know but there it is. There were times in my life when I didn't work and the days were filled with creativity. I painted and wrote and never seemed to waste time as I seem to now. Using free time well takes discipline. I could fritter it away with frothy busy-ness or use it constructively. Sometimes I get a sense of the fragility of life. It is a miracle that I'm alive, even for this brief butterfly wing beat of life. How many billions of people have lived before me who no longer draw breath? With a few rare exceptions they are forgotten, dust motes in a sunbeam. And I will join them. If there is something after death will I remember this life and berate myself for having taken it so lightly? Acting as though I would live forever and have all the time in the world? It is patently obvious I won't. Obvious now that I'm on the downward track. I suppose it's a part of aging that you think about time running out. Seems that almost every day R has another story about someone he knows ill or dying or dead. Our peers are starting to drop.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
It was Odd
The night before last, in that relaxed moment between leaving sleep permanently behind and swinging one's legs over the side of the bed to start the day I had an odd experience. Out of rhythm with my breathing, but as though I was breathing, my body was swelling and deflating - not so extremely as those words suggest but as though I was breathing. The chest expands and subsides with the inhalation and exhalation of the breath. Except I was breathing at a different rate than this strange phenomenon.
I was fully awake for I got up shortly after. But I held still just to experience this weird occurrence. It didn't hurt, it wasn't conscious, it wasn't even frightening, just odd.
I was fully awake for I got up shortly after. But I held still just to experience this weird occurrence. It didn't hurt, it wasn't conscious, it wasn't even frightening, just odd.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Moroccan House
There is a house, a magnificent breath-taking house for sale near the coast. I've been looking at houses and properties for about two years because we don't know whether the quarry is in or out. It is before the Environmental and Planning Court but hasn't been heard yet. Because I don't want to live here if a quarry begins, with the accompanying traffic, noise and destruction, I've searched for another place to live. And I look at houses that are completely out of our price range. Why? Well, who knows, we might win the lottery. Stranger things have happened.
So, while R sleeps and the morning chores are finished I got online to check the weather (raining) and mail and there, there was this Moroccan inspired house near Lennox Head. Built on a hill (no danger of flooding or beach erosion) on a large block (large enough for the aviaries) and it simply took my breath away. My heart beat faster and I felt this lump in my chest. Oh, I could live in this house (offers over $2 million). It is mysterious and warm, exotic and comfortable, green and red and blue; green tropical foliage, red sandstone and blue ocean and pool.
What a good idea to move the cages. Tachimedes and Cornelius have gone into Corni's cage for breakfast but still want nothing to do with Tach's. I've taken the black sheet off the top of Tach's cage. It's never been a worry before but with the cage up so high it does look somewhat large and ominous looming over the rest of the verandah like some Twilight Zone alien. Have replaced it with a cream sheet which is light and airy and hopefully not so frightening to one tiny little cockatiel.
R is mowing the lawn. We take precautions before R mows as Dimitri has leapt from great heights because of fear. The padding around the tree perch extends out about 4'. Even Dimitri can't leap beyond the padding (I hope!). If he does leap he'll still scare himself but he shouldn't be injured. The other perches are laid down on the ground so that he can't climb them only to jump in panic. Otherwise I'd have to pad the entire verandah and that's just not logical. Couldn't clean it and I'd be doing bird laundry all the time.
Was quite chuffed this morning as Dimitri took the millet with less fuss and far more bravery. One day....
Went to the gym, bought groceries and and winning lotto ticket. How I wish. I know why I don't win. Not because of the odds against it. That's nothing. It's because I am torn between wanting material things and knowing in the scheme of things, ie reality, I don't need them and everything I need I already have. It's guilt. I have so much, why should I expect or ask for more. Where we live is a little piece of paradise. How dare I ask for frosting when I've got cake? Yet I do. There's another part of me that knows there is no want in the world. Having The Moroccan doesn't mean someone else does without. (It also has a studio over the garage, perfect for peace and quiet - painting, yoga and meditation - I love R to bits but it is difficult sometimes to have that little area of my own. He comes looking for me, just to touch base, not because he wants me to do something but...I don't know, he just comes and says hello, hovers a bit sometimes. I need a room of my own (Oh, Virginia how right you were!).
So, while R sleeps and the morning chores are finished I got online to check the weather (raining) and mail and there, there was this Moroccan inspired house near Lennox Head. Built on a hill (no danger of flooding or beach erosion) on a large block (large enough for the aviaries) and it simply took my breath away. My heart beat faster and I felt this lump in my chest. Oh, I could live in this house (offers over $2 million). It is mysterious and warm, exotic and comfortable, green and red and blue; green tropical foliage, red sandstone and blue ocean and pool.
What a good idea to move the cages. Tachimedes and Cornelius have gone into Corni's cage for breakfast but still want nothing to do with Tach's. I've taken the black sheet off the top of Tach's cage. It's never been a worry before but with the cage up so high it does look somewhat large and ominous looming over the rest of the verandah like some Twilight Zone alien. Have replaced it with a cream sheet which is light and airy and hopefully not so frightening to one tiny little cockatiel.
R is mowing the lawn. We take precautions before R mows as Dimitri has leapt from great heights because of fear. The padding around the tree perch extends out about 4'. Even Dimitri can't leap beyond the padding (I hope!). If he does leap he'll still scare himself but he shouldn't be injured. The other perches are laid down on the ground so that he can't climb them only to jump in panic. Otherwise I'd have to pad the entire verandah and that's just not logical. Couldn't clean it and I'd be doing bird laundry all the time.
Was quite chuffed this morning as Dimitri took the millet with less fuss and far more bravery. One day....
Went to the gym, bought groceries and and winning lotto ticket. How I wish. I know why I don't win. Not because of the odds against it. That's nothing. It's because I am torn between wanting material things and knowing in the scheme of things, ie reality, I don't need them and everything I need I already have. It's guilt. I have so much, why should I expect or ask for more. Where we live is a little piece of paradise. How dare I ask for frosting when I've got cake? Yet I do. There's another part of me that knows there is no want in the world. Having The Moroccan doesn't mean someone else does without. (It also has a studio over the garage, perfect for peace and quiet - painting, yoga and meditation - I love R to bits but it is difficult sometimes to have that little area of my own. He comes looking for me, just to touch base, not because he wants me to do something but...I don't know, he just comes and says hello, hovers a bit sometimes. I need a room of my own (Oh, Virginia how right you were!).
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